I could have said that if I died, they could have taken the Aryx and been free of the burden of caring for me. They must have read such a thought in my expression, for di Chatillon looked grave and the eldest man kept at his mustache. An uncomfortable silence ruled the room, and my Court training rose up inside me, demanding something graceful and witty.
I had little left of grace or wit about me. Still, I should put them at their ease; twas never too early to cultivate an acquaintance for a plan, or to frustrate intrigue. Yet I searched for aught to say that did not sound ungrateful or transparent.
Luc di Chatillon finally broke the quiet. “You look very sad, d’mselle.”
“I feel a little wan,” I admitted diplomatically. My wits were not what they could be. “Your pardon.”
“Oh, no. You were ill, d’mselle, and still you thought only of our safety. We are glad to serve you.”
“Do not tire her,” di Yspres interrupted. “D’mselle, they wished to see you well. Tristan should return soon.”
“We caught him in the square, watching the people. He looked grim,” di Parmecy offered, his mustache twitching.
“When does he not?” Luc laughed again, the rafters ringing. “He is your staunchest chivalier, d’mselle. He would not hear of another Guard taking a turn at watching over you.”
My voice sounded strange even to myself. “D’Arcenne does his duty, tis well known.”
The three men exchanged looks I had little trouble deciphering, much about them made plain in just that moment. To separate them and work them against the Captain’s will would not be easy.
I doubt I am up to the challenge at this moment. I cursed my weakness and closed my eyes, sinking again into the pillows. “Your pardon, sieurs. I am not myself. Mayhap I am more ill than I thought.”
“You seem to be.” The lieutenant, kindly enough, but with a shadow of mistrust. Could he see what I planned? Of course, I had all but given him a map of my intentions. “We shall withdraw, to give you lee to rest.”
Someone — I peeked through my lashes to see Luc di Chatillon — touched my hand where it lay against the coverlet. “Aye, Your Majesty. If we tire you, the Captain might flog us. He worries like an old woman for you.”
“Leave the Captain to his business,” Adersahl snapped. “You talk too much, Luc.”
The first glimmers of a plan became evident. So, di Chatillon laughs and does not think before he speaks, and di Parmecy et Villeroche is not so easily led as I thought. Perhaps the boy, di Rocham. Wait, Vianne. Your moment will come.
“Aye to that.” The lieutenant ushered them away. “Now we shall leave you to rest, d’mselle, but I will return soon.” He swept the other two out, giving me a significant stare as they all swept their hats and gave me Court-fair bows. I waved a hand gracefully, and when the door closed behind them, I sighed.
Now. Test your strength.
I pushed myself up on my hands, looking about with interest. There was a pile of gear in one corner — I thought I recognized a pair of saddlebags belonging to the Captain. There was also a set of clothes laid over the back of a chair — a smaller linen shirt, a pair of breeches, and the leather vest I had worn from the riverside boardinghouse.
So they had brought me fresh clothes. Thank the Blessed. Which would one thank for laundry? Perhaps Jiserah; all things of the home were her purview. Certainly not Alisaar the Lovely — she was concerned only with love and artifice. The Huntress most emphatically would not care either.
Thinking on the gods led me to the Aryx. Why had it not moved to save Lisele’s life? There were stories — old ones, aye, but still considered good — of the will of the gods striking through their serpents to protect their vessel. But that was in the times when the gods took an active interest, which they had not for a long while. Not in overt ways, though there was no drought or crop failure in Arquitaine. Those who served the Twelve Blessed often murmured that the gods had larger concerns than petty personal problems.
This is not personal, it is the fate of the land the Blessed call their own. Why did the Aryx not strike down the traitors?
I thought on this. It took some time to dress, since my fingers shook and I had to sit upon the bed and rest until I could attempt the lacing on the vest. I had never thought of the help a ladyservant was in such matters; would I ever have a girl to lace me up or attend to my hair again? Or would I end myself in a Marrseize slum? By starvation, or summat else?
Would I even sell some things I held very dear indeed, if I became hungry enough? For I did not think I was a fine enough hedgewitch to earn a mountain of coin. Still, I could give lessons on Tiberian, I supposed — but that might require a letter of introduction, did I wish to governess in a noble house. A merchant would perhaps not care.
I shuddered at the turn my thoughts were taking. Perhaps I could retreat to a cloister? Kimyan’s Elect sometimes took those such as me, but I did not have a dowry.
That is a worry for another day, Vianne. Your concern is to free the Guard of your weight.
The watercloset was a relief; I washed fever-film from my face and immediately felt much more cheerful. Then I sat upon the bed and attempted to braid my hair.
Like most Court women, my hair has never been cut, only trimmed a bit now and again. As a result, it is always a task to braid when it has been loose for two days of fever-tossing abed. I had no comb — I did not know where my servant’s bag was — so I had to untangle the knots with my fingers, and it took what little energy remained to me. I mulled on the nature of the gods, and the more pressing problem of how I would seek employment in Marrseize, and the still-more-pressing problem of how to escape the Guard so they did not injure themselves on my account.
When I finished braiding, I held the end of the rope. The thought of cutting the whole mass free and seeking to escape through the window like the Princesse Ducarne in the old courtsong was highly appealing.
I finally spotted a bit of green ribbon on the table next to the small cordial bottle that held the Feversbane. That worked to tie off my braid, and I stood by the table for a moment, swaying, irresolute.
What are you thinking? I scolded myself, and reached up to touch the Aryx’s hard warmth under my shirt. You are almost too weak to walk. You will not go far. Now is the time for planning instead of flight.
Nevertheless, I pulled at the heavy silver chain, and discovered something disconcerting.
The Great Seal of Arquitaine would not budge. It seemed to have grown into my skin.
I opened my shirt and made my way into the watercloset, where there was a generous sliver of mirror over the washstand. I watched as I pulled on the chain, and the Aryx would not move. I saw the chain sliding through the aperture made by two snake-coils, but the Aryx itself fused to me. I felt no tugging sensation against my skin when I pulled on the chain, but the chain itself bit my fingers. A warning nip, like a small hunting dog.
I let out a soft, breathless sound, half a sob. I tugged on the chain again — the Seal would not move. The chain jerked free of my fingers, and I let it.
The Aryx chooses its holder. Could it read my mind, discerning I wished no part of it? If it was fused to my skin now, why had it not performed a more useful feat and safeguarded Lisele — or even warned her? I twisted frantically at the chain, disregarding a second, sharper nip against my fingers. I had lost all my breath, and I think that is perhaps why I heard the soft, sliding noise.